


eclipses the moon, shames flowers

by heavensblessing



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beloved Crown Prince noncons Innocent Younger Bastard Brother, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Victim Blaming, manipulative aggressor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensblessing/pseuds/heavensblessing
Summary: Masahiko can have almost anyone at court, almost anyone at all - so beloved, so loved - save for who he wants.Unfortunately, who he wants is his half-brother, who is the most beautiful at court: gentle, silent, and soon to be married.





	eclipses the moon, shames flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sattsuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sattsuma/gifts).



Rumors were unbecoming for a prince - much less the crown prince - to listen to, far below his station, but Masahiko hears them anyway. He is his mother's only son, her only child, but her bitterness over that fact has not sunk into his bones, even as the whispers about his half-brother swirl past him, gossip sown by lying, hateful tongues. 

Ever since his brother's birth, the rumors have been particularly vicious, fanned by his extraordinary, ethereal beauty and unsuitable temperament. Alone among the emperor's children by his concubines, he was not adopted by the empress and only privately, not publicly, acknowledged by the emperor. All his daughters were, beloved flowers all, but not his youngest, unloved son, whose mother disappeared soon after his birth. Mika writes his name with the character for 'beautiful', and grew up as lovely and graceful as he is timid and gentle. 

All the rumors can agree that Mika is the most beautiful,half the maidens green with envy and the other half jealous unto sickness, but what they cannot agree on is what he actually _is_. The child of a kitsune disguised as a maiden, who walked into court with a basket with a child inside, setting it down before the emperor, before transforming into a fox and fleeing the scene. The child of a tennyo, who stole back her feathered cloak and left her child behind. 

_(Masahiko thinks longingly of a robe of feathers that he could bury beneath his threshold and ensure that his brother could never leave. But there is no robe of feathers, and if Mika were tennyo-born, he would have had his by now.)_

The last, most persistent rumor casts Mika as a living doll, carved of sacred wood and blessed in its creation by imperial blood and bone, a doll that would never know it was a doll, the truth only revealed on its passing. He is delicate like a doll, fine-boned and beautiful, dressed as a living doll in a woman's layered robes, silent, distant, and graceful. Even his coloring is uncanny, violet eyes and long pink hair: a fleeting rumor each spring, during the period of the spring equinox, names him a cherry blossom spirit, but even he is not that delicate, not a fragile thing destroyed by the impure touch of humans. 

Were Mika anything other than what he is, a too-fragile young man of imperial lineage, he would be loved. He would make a fine courtesan, even Masahiko has to admit with no little jealousy, but his station is far too high for that. But he is not brave or beloved, not like Masahiko is: instead he is desired, coveted, lusted after, though Mika himself never sees the hungry eyes that follow him on the rare occasions he comes to court now, after his coming of age. 

But he is what he is, Masahiko's brother. And Masahiko can have almost anyone at court, almost anyone at all -so beloved, so loved- save for who he wants. And _that_ knowledge - that Mika will never look to him in the way he wants, will never see him as a lover - lies bitter like ashes on his tongue. 

Masahiko makes time for his brother, of course: less time than before Mika's coming of age, and less time than he would like. But their father is soon to abdicate, in a full turning of the year: the constant ritual demands of his office are strain on his health, and Masahiko has his own ceremonies to conduct and preparations to make. 

Tonight, he comes by Mika's rooms for tea, behind the blinds, and enjoys the graceful movements of his hands as his half-brother prepares tea. Masahiko expects silence, because Mika does not like to talk, even to him, and just watches the way light falls across his face. He expects silence, but even Mika manages to surprise him, in the most unexpected way possible. 

"...Father is arranging a marriage for me." Mika finally says, the word 'father' distant and hesitant on his tongue, eyes demurely lowered. It is only in private, behind screens, that the Emperor is Mika's father, and even the most formal address seems almost too familiar. 

Masahiko almost doesn't process the shape of the words for a moment, too distracted by the unfamiliarity, before it hits him, and the wrongness of the entire situation. Of course Mika would have a marriage carefully considered, if not arranged: unacknowledged imperial prince he might be, but he is still a child of the emperor. His marriage could not be like those of the court, so fleeting and easily broken, when one spouse stops visiting the other. But their father, busy as he was, arranging it? 

But after a moment, it makes sense: Mika was not adopted by the Empress, who arranges the marriages for her children. Mother would have no interest in arranging a marriage for a child who was not hers in any way. Masahiko does not particularly care about the logistics, but the thought of Mika's marriage has his fingers briefly tightening with jealousy on his bowl of tea. 

"It seems very sudden," Masahiko instead offers, after a sip of tea. "Your coming of age was less than a year ago." He himself had been betrothed young, to a Fujiwara daughter and nearly a Fujiwara son as well, though his marriage had not taken place for several years after his coming of age. 

"My presence at court is....disruptive." Mika says, gently, his eyes still lowered. Accepting, as if it was entirely his fault, and perhaps in some ways, it was. Too beautiful, too pure, no matter how he tries to diminish the space he takes up. 

"And your marriage would make it less disruptive?" Masahiko asks, finally. Marriage would not stop him from being coveted, not when so many of the court took lovers outside of marriage. "...do you know yet who you are to marry? And when? " 

He does not expect Mika to know yet: the process cannot be that far along. Not if this is the first he has heard of it, when he has been more Mika's guardian than their father. 

Instead, Mika nods, timid and unsure. "...Fujiwara Hiroshi." he whispers, looking at his hands. How has he not heard of this until now? Not even a breath, a whisper, and Masahiko notes to watch his brother more closely, for Mika's sake. “Next spring is most auspicious, around the first cherry blossoms or maybe the season of the geese flying north. Before the grain rains...” 

After a moment, Masahiko reviews what he knows about Mika's betrothed. Only five years older than Mika himself, younger than the ten years between Masahiko and his half-brother: a bastard born of a mistress as well, if one fully acknowledged by his father and adopted by his father's wife. Which makes him technically higher status than Mika, who while an imperial bastard, was an unacknowledged one, and the Fujiwara were one of the four Great Families. He hasn't paid much attention to him besides that, but he knows that he is not good enough for his brother. 

No one else is good enough for Mika. 

"Do you wish to marry him?" Of course Mika would wish to fulfill his duty, obedient as he is. He does not expect anything else from him: but does he actually wish for _this_ particular marriage? Masahiko expects silence, or a gentle shake of his head. 

Instead, Mika nods. 

Masahiko puts down the tea bowl immediately, just as he feels his grip tighten. Mika has few enough nice things, and he would not break any of them in a fit of temper. 

"Why?" he asks, trying not to sound too sharp, and failing. 

"I do not want to live at court anymore," Mika says, softly. Masahiko remembers when he'd tried, shortly after his coming of age, to join a monastery as a monk and had been rejected. Too beautiful to be accepted into a monastery as a novice, too distracting to the monks. "He does not like it much either. Besides, he is kind." 

Masahiko frowns. "Is that truly all you want? Kindness and a husband who would move away from court and take you with him?"

Mika nods. "Are you angry, brother?" he asks, timidly. 

"He is not good enough for you." Masahiko says. "I see your worth, even if Father does not." 

After a moment, Mika ducks his head demurely. It's a very becoming gesture. "Who would you choose for me, then?" 

_Me_ , Masahiko thinks but does not say, because such a thing is impossible. "I am not certain. But I know I could find better for you." 

He takes up his tea bowl again and finishes the rest, standing up once he sets it aside. "Good night, Mika." 

"Good night, elder brother." Mika says, still timid and uncertain, just before Masahiko closes the blinds behind him as he departs, still jealous and seething. 

Between his duties and Mika's shy reclusiveness, Masahiko does not get to see his half-brother again until early summer, during the time that the bamboo shoots sprout. He sends Mika a poem, inviting him to come drink with him that night: the response, in Mika's beautiful calligraphy, is all demure acceptance wrapped in delicate poetry. 

It is not as warm a response as he would have liked, but Mika is shy and demure and receives so much poetry a day, invitations he never accepts, for he takes no lovers. By now, his betrothal has been made public, but the rumors note that he still does not allow Fujiwara Hiroshi behind his screen, only allows his betrothed to see his sleeves and speak with him from outside the blinds. 

_(Masahiko tries not to be too unbecomingly gleeful about that fact. Of course Hiroshi has actually seen Mika before, on the rare occasions he attends court, but this is different)_

The shadows against his blinds resolves into a tall, willowy silhouette: Mika is so shy and reserved, as well as so delicate and slight, that it is easy to forget how tall he actually is. Still over a hand and a half shorter than he is, but still taller than most. 

Masahiko has no intentions of anything more than a pleasant evening, drinking with his half-brother, until he sees what Mika is wearing. As usual, he is dressed like a doll, his robes layered and the proper colors for the season, except arranged to leave his beautiful, long legs mostly bare. 

"Where did you get those clothes?" he asks, pouring the sake and suspecting he won't like the answer. He is, in fact, correct, as the robes were a gift from Mika's betrothed, for him to wear in private, and he hadn't time to change after trying them on. Masahiko, for his part, wants to rip them off him, but restrains himself. 

Instead, he focuses on drinking and poetry: the two of them trade verses with each sip. Mika blushes so very prettily with some alcohol in him, and Masahiko refills his cup again and again, even when it looks like his brother might turn his cup over and stop. Refills it for a third time, but he's forgotten just how little Mika can drink, used to drinking with courtiers who can drink far into the night. Mika falls asleep long before his cup is finished, drifts off leaning against his shoulder, soft and trusting, before Masahiko picks him up and lays him down on his curtained bed. Softer, by far, than his shoulder, and Mika doesn't stir the whole time, even as Masahiko leans over him. 

Mika is so lovely like this, long pink hair fanned out against the bedding: always so beautiful, the unseen jewel of court, but even more so. Few enough people see him, and the thought of his impending marriage is maddening, and jealousy twists sharp and ugly in his heart at the thought that beautiful Mika is being given to Fujiwara Hiroshi. Fujiwara or not, similar station or not, Hiroshi is not good enough for him, especially not when he dresses him like this. 

In his sleep, Mika's lips are parted, vulnerable and inviting: delicate rosebud mouth, much admired in poetry. _Eclipses the moon, shames flowers_ : a fragment of imported poetry, imported idiom, long misapplied to Mika, by more than one person, but more than appropriate. Fragile doll of a person, arranged so beautifully, and he's wanted him for so long and for too much. And he deserves him more than Fujiwara Hiroshi, who is not good enough, even if Mika is the one person he cannot have. He will have him regardless. 

Masahiko imagines as he undresses him, however briefly, the fantasy that Mika would not refuse his hands, his mouth, would open for him sweetly. Pliant and unconscious with sleep and drink, Mika does not stir, and it is an easy fantasy to hold onto. He is careful as he undresses him, even though he wants to tear these gifted robes off him and give him something else to replace them. Careful not to bruise him or leave any marks behind on moon-pale skin, even as much as he might like to leave finger-marks on slender, narrow hips, takes the white camellia flower ornament out of his hair and lays it carefully aside. 

Gently, he lays Mika out, parts his slim thighs, and runs his fingertips down smooth skin, exploratory caresses, and feels him briefly shiver in his sleep beneath his touch, as he explores all that exposed skin. His skin is a little cool to the touch, but no cooler than Masahiko's own wife, though he is otherwise much more still and silent. And much more lovely. 

Unlike his lovers, Mika's body remains unwarmed and unresponsive to his touch: occasionally, he tries to shiver away, in his sleep, but otherwise unmoved and unaroused. Though Masahiko might have liked for him to respond to his touch, however briefly, it might even be better this way. Mika is pure, and sweet, and obedient, above such things as base lust. 

Masahiko is not: something he has in common with Mika's betrothed, he thinks sourly, remembering how he's seen occasional glimpses of hunger and longing in the man's eyes as he looks at Mika. There are so many things he wants, as he draws his sleeping brother close with an arm around his slender waist, and he reaches for the vial of oil he keeps close at hand. Careful to not drop the vial, he pours expensive, scented oil over his fingers, inhaling the delicate scent as it fills the room, and carefully presses a finger into Mika, works it into him slowly. 

Gods, he's tight, even with just a finger in him, even relaxed and pliant from sake and sleep. Takes a little while to work him open with one finger before pushing the second into him, adds more oil. Stretches him open, bit by bit, tries not to enjoy - but does, anyway - the unconscious, soft gasp of discomfort, even as he tries to be gentle. Mika doesn't, can't resist him, and Masahiko adds a third finger and still more oil, works him open slowly and carefully with all three. His hands are large and seeing how Mika is stretched open around his fingers, made ready to receive, nearly breaks his control. He wants so much, and Mika would be so very tight around him, even tighter then he is around his fingers, take his cock so nicely. 

He could just take him, like this. Sweet and gentle. If Mika were given to him instead of Fujiwara Hiroshi, that would be the wedding night he would have given him: his gentle brother deserves sweetness and consideration. Mika is asleep, unconscious and dreaming, and not likely to wake: he can just clean him up, after, and he would still be pure for that betrothed of his, if that is what he wants. Just this once, and it would be enough. 

It would be enough. With his other hand, Masahiko undresses himself just enough to free his cock and slicks himself with oil, before he spreads Mika's legs with his knees, pushes slim thighs apart as widely as they will go, settles between them. Withdraws his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock, sinks into Mika inch by inch, covers his delicate mouth with his own. Sweet, just as sweet as Masahiko imagined, both his mouth and his body, and Mika yields so sweetly until he's buried all the way in him and takes a moment to enjoy it, briefly still, before he begins to move. 

Gods, he's so tight, spread obscenely wide around his cock: not quite too tight, Mika's unresisting enough for that, but so very, very tight. A body made for pleasure, even if it isn't his own. Masahiko is careful to not grip narrow hips too hard, careful to not leave marks, careful to take him slow and gentle and tender, again and again and again, as he would treat any new lover, especially one who was a virgin. Sweetness and consideration. 

Masahiko does not last as long as he would like, but lasts long enough. He does deny himself the pleasure of coming inside Mika, as tempting as the idea is: easier to wash away if he does not. Instead, he reluctantly withdraws when he knows he's close and takes his pleasure between slender thighs, groans low when he comes and spills his seed across that tight hole.

Immediately, he gets up, puts his clothing back in order, and goes to fetch, himself, a basin of water and a cloth. With even more gentle hands than when he'd touched him, Masahiko washes away his seed and any evidence away, until Mika's pale skin is pristine. Dresses him again, layer after layer, even though he would have preferred to destroy this set of doll's robes, though he leaves off the outermost layer and wraps him in it, as if he'd simply put Mika to bed after he'd fallen asleep while drinking. 

Last of all, Masahiko puts the white camellia hair ornament back into Mika's hair, careful to put it on the correct side, before undressing just enough for bed himself. Leaves space between their bodies, though he would have liked to sleep right beside him, and closes his eyes, to let himself rest. 

The next morning, Mika awakens with a headache: his brother does not complain, though, but sits in demure silence, hands folded in his lap. Does not speak for most of breakfast and only picks at his food, chopsticks tapping fitfully at his bowl before he lays them across it. 

“Is something troubling you, Mika?” Masahiko asks, carefully, watching him over his bowl of tea. Lovely violet eyes are demurely lowered, his brother’s gaze firmly fixed onto the floor, and he isn’t even touching his tea. Mika usually holds to silence, keeping his secrets close to his heart, but even this is unusual for him. 

“I am...uncertain.” Mika says, finally, his eyes still fixed on the floor. “A...troubling dream.” 

“Tell me about it,” Masahiko tries to coax him to talk, frowning inwardly. Mika had been asleep the whole time he’d had him, he was certain. Asleep and entirely unknowing of what his body had been used for. "I am no onmyoji, but..."

"It was a dream too strong for me to control," Mika says, finally, almost too soft to be heard. "A heavy weight on me, pinning me down. A man's voice in my ear. Someone I should have known almost as well as my own name. And..." 

He trails off, hiding his face behind his sleeve for a long moment. 

"I'm sorry," Mika finally says, lowering his sleeve. "I do not know what came over me." 

"Poor omens," Masahiko says, carefully. "Have a way of doing so." 

"...an omen?" his brother asks, softly. "...of...?" 

"Your marriage." Masahiko says, after a moment of consideration, and watches Mika's face fall, his expression cloud over even more. So sad. So lovely. But why would his marriage be different? Mika's betrothed wants just as much as Masahiko does, after all, and he cannot imagine that Mika would welcome his touch either. After a moment, he pushes Mika's tea bowl closer to him. "But you have time before you have to think about this too closely. Eat: you are too thin." 

After a moment, Mika nods, trusting and obedient, and reaches to pick up his tea. 

~~~

Unfortunately, Masahiko realizes soon enough, that one night had not taken the edge off his jealousy nor slaked his desire: instead, he wants Mika all the more. So sweet, so trusting, and the one thing he wants that he cannot have. 

Between his brother’s continued reclusiveness and his own duties, Masahiko does not cross paths again with him for some time. The rumors, as always, are fascinated by Mika's lack of socializing: he has never truly participated in court life, unless obligated by ritual, but his separation does not mean he goes unnoticed. Especially with his beauty. His lack of lovers and empty bed is something the court gossips comment on avidly, especially with how he still does not allow his betrothed behind his screens, leaves Fujiwara Hiroshi to pine outside the painted screen. 

It is not good news, precisely, but he does privately savor it. The thought of his brother in anyone else's arms, even those of his betrothed - especially those of his betrothed - is maddening, though he does his best to hide his thoughts. Occasionally visits his lovers, when he has time, and even more occasionally his wife: none of them are Mika, delicate and lovely, and none of them are satisfying. None of them are enough. 

One night, during the season of the autumn equinox, Masahiko pens a brief fragment of a poem, with an intention to visit, and sends it to his brother: there is no reply, which does not entirely surprise him. He does not send another missive, but instead chooses to wander the cool hallways, not thinking about where he is going, until he realizes that he's wandered to the distant hallways where Mika's rooms are. 

Masahiko does not expect his brother to be entertaining a visitor - and yet he sees this is the case, irritation and anger welling up in him. Fujiwara Hiroshi sits properly just outside the screens closing off Mika's rooms, saying something in his low, deep voice, though Masahiko cannot hear what the younger man is saying. 

A clear, ethereal sound catches his attention, light like water or petals falling, unfamiliar at first, until he realizes what it is: laughter. Mika's laughter, rare, brief, and treasured. His brother is still properly behind his screen, with only one butterfly-embroidered doll's sleeve peeking out. 

Fujiwara Hiroshi is courting him, Masahiko realizes, rage choking him, as if his and Mika’s marriage had not been arranged. He should be happy that his beloved brother is being given to a man who clearly wants his happiness, who while not good enough, never good enough, courts him properly, who has not taken other lovers since the arrangement was made, who even manages to make him laugh. He should be happy, but is not. 

He says nothing, just leaves them without a sound. Stalks back to his rooms, thoroughly irritated, and does not visit any of his lovers that night. Deliberately is alone in his bed, leans his head back and thinks of rumors. Of the latest , and the lingering rumors of Mika's true nature, nearly falls asleep before he remembers something Mika had said, months before, in passing. Masahiko hadn't given it much thought at the time, too occupied in trying to keep him from suspecting what he'd done while he was unconscious. 

But Mika is not an onmyoji, has never been trained in the art, and even an onmyoji cannot control dreams. Protect from nightmares with a supernatural cause, yes, but not control dreams. And Masahiko is certain that he isn't a yokai or a spirit: if he'd truly been anything like that, his nature would have been long-discovered.

No, there's only one thing he can be, and isn't that funny, how close rumors came to the truth. A long time ago, master artisan-sorcerers made living dolls from sacred wood, dolls indistinguishable from humans until they died, who bled and wept just like humans did, dolls who were concubines and courtesans to the most powerful. Infinitely beautiful and desirable and who could control dreams, coveted and expensive and wars fought over a single one, until no more were made. An obscure legend. 

No wonder Mika's mother disappeared, if she was heir to those long-lost magics. Sacred wood and holy flowers and imperial blood and bone, a miracle and a brother under heaven. It changes nothing, because Mika is his brother, and cannot be his, will not be his, but the bitterness of knowing that he could have (should have) been his concubine is ash-sharp on his tongue as he falls asleep thinking of the marvels of Mika's stem-bones and petal-hands. Of things that cannot but should be his. 

~~~

Masahiko expects nothing: tomorrow is the banquet to celebrate Mika's marriage, and then once the roads are fit to travel again, his brother and his husband will leave court. He expects nothing and pours himself a cup of sake, and another, and is surprised when a delicately-penned missive arrives from his brother, asking him to visit. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless, and he takes up his brush to write a reply. 

Tonight, his brother is beautiful but uncertain: about what Masahiko expected, given that soon he is to be married. Mika pours Masahiko sake, careful and graceful, but declines to drink alcohol himself, preferring tea. Perhaps he should have tried to moderate his drinking, especially since he was already two cups in before he'd arrived at Mika's room. 

He does not. He is good at holding his drink, as far as that goes, but he drinks more than he should, far more than he should, drinks more than enough that he stops caring about consequences, about what he should do, in the face of what he wants, stops hiding what he should. 

After a moment, he sets his empty cup down and reaches out to cup Mika's chin, his fingers so large against his brother's delicate jaw and holds him still as he kisses him.

"Good night, Elder Brother." Mika says, timidly, and draws back away from him, from the kiss, as soon as Masahiko lets him go. Masahiko knows what he _should_ do, as he stands up, that he should leave, go along with the dismissal, and the two of them never speak of this again. 

Instead, he steps forward: Mika steps back, steps back again. Distressed, fluttering steps, and Masahiko keeps backing him up, slowly and deliberately, until he has nowhere left to go, until his back is pressed against the wooden platform of his curtained bed. 

Mika is tense, rigid, as Masahiko leans over him, rests his hands on either side of his body, caging him within the circle of his arms. His brother is tall, but Masahiko is taller still - and not willow-slender, unlike delicate, slight Mika. 

"Has he had you yet?" Masahiko asks, his tongue sake-sharp and cruel. Mika is silent, long lashes fluttering closed over lovely violet eyes. "Your betrothed," he adds, unnecessarily, and Mika finally shakes his head, his eyes still closed. So he still hadn't let Fujiwara Hiroshi behind his screen. "I'm surprised. You know even with the formalities you won't be married in the court's eyes until you've spent three nights together, in a row - and your banquet is tomorrow and you haven't even spent one." 

Carefully, he reaches up, to push a stray strand of pink hair away from Mika's face. "I'll just have to teach you about that aspect of marriage, then. Since your betrothed has been remiss." 

This close, he can feel Mika trembling, like a little leaf, and enjoys every moment of it. "No, please," Mika whispers, sounding on the verge of tears. "I don't...please." 

Masahiko strokes Mika's hair with a terrible, implacable gentleness. "Don't fight me, Mika." he says. "You allowed me behind your screen." 

The broken little sob is barely audible, but Mika doesn't struggle. Doesn't fight him at all, except in the matter of his tension, just is utterly still in his arms as Masahiko picks him up and carries him into bed. Does not open to his hands or his mouth, a flower closed against the cold that refuses to blossom, even as Masahiko explores smooth, perfect skin. He is not the first, nor the only man who has gone to bed with a flower that will not bloom. 

_(he knows what to do)_

It's not what he wanted, not what he dreamed of, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter as he tears the delicate doll's robes off his brother's trembling body layer by layer, the robes his betrothed had given him, throws ruined silk aside carelessly and lets it fall to the floor. If this is the only way he can have what he cannot, then- 

_(he is not careful of the flower ornament Mika wears in his hair, this time. Masahiko pushes him down and doesn’t care about crushed petals-)_

Masahiko turns him over, easily, so he doesn’t have to see the stricken look in lovely violet eyes, lets his brother hide behind his never-cut hair. It is the only bit of kindness that he gives him as he parts slender thighs with his knees, pours expensive clove oil across his fingers, and roughly works him open, hears the breathy gasps of pain and discomfort. It’s not like the last time, where he could imagine Mika would welcome him, his body pliant and open with sleep and sake: this time, his sweet brother is awake and does not welcome him. Even fingers are almost too much, he’s too tight around Masahiko’s fingers this time, which itself is a delicious thought. Sweet and unyielding: the flower that refuses to bloom. 

But that’s fine. He’ll just make him. Masahiko just pours more oil into his palm and slicks himself, rubs against that tight hole, enjoys the friction and the anticipation how Mika trembles beneath him at the slight pressure. He’d been gentle the last time, when he’d had unknowing Mika in his bed, the wedding night he wished he could give him. But not this time. 

“Did he promise you that it would be gentle?” Masahiko asks, pressing his lips against his brother’s delicate ear: there is no answer, and he does not truly expect one. “You should know better.” 

He replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, and roughly pushes into him, feels Mika tense around him, and does not stop. Forces Mika to yield to him, inch by inch, big hands bruising-tight on his pretty, narrow hips, until he’s buried all the way in too-tight heat and keeps moving, rough, relentless, enjoys the little gasps of pain. His thrusts are demanding, forces his brother open around him again and again and again, and _gods_ , he’d thought it before, but Mika truly _was_ made for pleasure. Any man’s pleasure, just not his own, and that’s the thought that sends Masahiko over the edge, spilling his seed inside his brother’s tight body. 

_(Of course he does not deny himself the pleasure this time.)_

Masahiko has Mika again, of course, even rougher: his seed, as well as the clove oil, makes it easier to move in him, though he’s still so wonderfully tight and hot around his cock, and the edge is taken off enough that he lasts even longer before he comes. Enjoys how Mika is unaroused, how he doesn’t find even a moment’s pleasure in it, his broken little sobs of pain: a long time ago, the living dolls made to be concubines, even those who did not know what they were, were made so their bodies only responded to the men who were their masters. 

But Mika, who had been raised an unacknowledged prince, not as a concubine-in-waiting, never meant to serve the purpose that the living dolls had originally been made for, is unfinished, and will always be unfinished. As much as Masahiko would have wanted Mika to be his and only his, it will never be, but Mika’s body will never respond to anyone’s touch, a blank vessel for men to sate their lusts with. Even his betrothed.

Carefully, he strokes Mika’s hair, while buried all the way inside him, not moving. Just enjoys the warmth of his body, presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and Mika flinches, tries to hide even more behind his hair despite the fact that Masahiko can’t see his face like this anyway. 

“Stop that,”he says, irritably. “You let me behind your screen. You _invited_ me here.” 

Nothing. Silence. 

“And you’ve never taken a lover, so you don’t know what to expect.” he continues. “What _your husband_ will expect from you tomorrow night.” 

Silence and stillness. 

“You won’t be sleeping tomorrow night.” Masahiko says. “ _New lovers_ are awake until dawn with talking and lovemaking. And since you don’t _talk,_ your husband is going to occupy that time _fucking_ you.” he punctuates the deliberate vulgarity with a roll of his hips, and the noise Mika makes is a half-choked sob. “What did you think- that just because he was _properly courting_ you, that he’d be content to just lie beside you for three nights? Did he _promise_ not to touch you?” 

“Please,” Mika says, soft and broken, and Masahiko ignores him. 

“He is a man like any other,” he continues, relentlessly, punctuates each word with a rough thrust for emphasis. “And you are beautiful enough that every man in court wants you. Beautiful enough that _you_ drove me mad wanting you.” 

Another half-choked sob. “Please, _stop-”_

“Stop what?” Masahiko asks, just to hear the little sob Mika makes, and laughs. Oh, sweet, gentle, broken brother. “Just once more then, but _properly_.” 

After a moment, he presses his lips against his brother’s ear, again, ignores the little shiver. “You might as well learn how to please a man,” he mutters. “Though your husband won’t thank me for this.”

Masahiko briefly withdraws from Mika, just long enough to turn him back over, before he pushes back into him without even a moment of gentleness. His brother tries to turn his face away, to hide behind his hair, to close his eyes, but Masahiko sets two fingers beneath his chin and forces him to look at him. 

“Look at me,” he says, even more relentlessly, and sees the unshed tears clinging to long, long lashes. Does not let him look away. 

Masahiko takes him yet again, pounding into him relentlessly, but encourages Mika with a hand on his pretty throat and pressing down slightly to tighten down on him, to not lie beneath him so still, to try to please whoever is having him. Comes inside yet again, as trembling, terrified Mika tightens down on his cock, takes his pleasure fast and hard and finally withdraws, amused at the little gasp of pain, as if Mika’s body is reluctant to separate from him. Literally made for pleasure, literally made to be taken. He enjoys how Mika’s thighs are sticky with his seed, how it drips down the inside of his slender legs, trickles out of him. 

Afterward, Mika does not look at him as Masahiko gets dressed, curls in on himself on the bed and hides beneath his hair, sobs quietly, brokenly. 

“Pull yourself together,” Masahiko says, once he’s finished dressing and has crossed the room to the painted screen. “Or not, if you want your betrothed to know.” 

What happens behind screens, save for murder, is legally private: even if Masahiko wasn’t the crown prince, soon to be emperor, neither Mika nor his husband _(if he even tells him)_ have recourse, and Mika knows it. 

The last thing Masahiko sees, just before he closes the screen behind him, is the flower ornament from Mika’s hair, fallen and crushed. Higanbana. 

 

 


End file.
